6,000
by The Necessity of Darkness
Summary: What happens when John is re-deployed to Afghanistan and separated from Sherlock? Will it bring them closer, or will they slowly drift apart, even with their costant contact through letters? (Eventual Johnlock, Probable Mystrade)
1. Goodbye

**A/N: So, I got this idea a couple of days ago after reading a few fanfics, and I'm quite proud with the product. There will be another chapter out sometime this week. I'm not sure where this is going yet, but Johnlock is probable. If you understand the title of the story, props to you.**

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The words " _I'm sorry_ " and " _Don't go_ " stick in his throat, although he will not say them. They are redundant and pointless. John will leave soon, and there is no point in making him feel guiltier for leaving than he already looks.

Sherlock tries to convince himself that he doesn't need the doctor. He tries to remember the way he was before John showed him that he could be more, but he can't deny the way John heightens his senses, improves his observations, makes him want to be good, to be better, to be as amazing as he can. He _wants_ to need John, he realizes. He wants John _here_.

"I won't say 'stay safe', because I know that's pointless, but at least try to stay in one piece until I get back." John tries a smile, but it looks more like a grimace as he glances at his feet. Sherlock tries to ignore the nagging feeling that he should be saying something.

He wants to say so much, but there wouldn't be enough room or time for everything he's thinking. " _Stay safe_." " _Don't get shot again_." " _I'll miss you_." " _When will you be back?_ "

" _Who will tell me to eat, or sleep, or pass me my phone, or shop, or make me tea, or order takeaway, or fend off my boredom, or come with me on cases, or compliment me, or tell me not to blow up the flat, or complain about the head still in the fridge, or worry about me, or care for me?_ "

But he just sets his shoulders and pushes a meager,"I'll try," past the lump in his throat. He tries to delete, delete, delete the stupid thoughts filtering through his head as John tries another smile.

"And don't blow up the flat," the doctor supplies, wagging a finger like it's meant to be funny. If it's a joke, it falls flat.

The boffin merely nods, eyes wandering down John's body before settling back on his face. He wants to be comforting, supportive, reliable, every word he would use to describe his blogger, yet he stays inexplicably still, needing to search for the strength just to step forward.

The words " _Stay alive_ " ring in his ears as he tries to communicate with his eyes what he can't with words. Hesitant, he runs his hands over the fine fabric of John's uniform, smoothing out the wrinkles and relishing ever dip and extension of John's body until he knows now is the acceptable time to pull his hands away.

John smiles at him as he shifts his kit bag. "Take care, Sherlock," he says, placing a warm hand on the detective's shoulder. The boffin catalogues the pleasant feel of it before it leaves all too quickly.

He realizes this is the last chance he has to say something to John in person. With a calming breath, he hopes he can convey through actions what he still cannot with words.

He bends forward, taking John in his arms, burrowing his face into the crook of his neck, reveling in the feel of the doctor's body pressed into his own. He savors the feel of John's one hand in his hair, the other dug into his back, the small sigh of approval beside his face.

"I'll write," John assures, lips brushing against his ear. "As soon as I can," he continues. Sherlock swears he can feel the doctor tracing shapes into his back. A triangle, circle, square.

Then his arms are gone, and he's stepping away. Sherlock lets him, and wonders what would be the best way to say farewell. He's always been shite at goodbyes, just like Mummy.

"Goodbye, John," is all he can muster, but he wishes he could know how to say _more_ , how to convey these things he's never felt before blooming slowly in the cavity of his chest.

John smiles at him, and the detective aches when he thinks about how long it will be until he sees the curve of those lips again. Suddenly, he wants to hear John laugh, just so he can replay the sound over and over again in his Mind Palace.

John sighs, and the detective can see him biting the inside of his cheek as he pulls away. Simply, he waves. "Goodbye, Sherlock," he says. Then, he turns on his heel, and only now does Sherlock realize that this is it.

John Watson is _leaving him._

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 **A/N: I hope you enjoyed. Any criticism, feedback, suggestions, or questions are acceptable and gladly welcomed.**


	2. Admission

12 days. It's only been _12 days_ since John left, and Sherlock's fingers itch to write a letter. But no, he shouldn't do that; it's weak and impatient and selfish of him. John will write him first. He said he would, he _said_ -

He takes a calming breath, shaking his head as he fumbles to text Lestrade about the results of his current case. He tries to forget the echoes of the doctor's compliments amplified in his head. He bypasses the ghost of his blogger in his eyes, doesn't bat an eye at the way Mind Palace John is looking at him as if he breathes stars.

Two vibrations: text messages.

That's duly noted.-GL

By the way, how's John? Has he written yet? Have you written back?-GL

The detective is sure that Graham doesn't mean any harm by the question, is too unevolved and stupid to understand that this _hurts_. It hurts like _bloody hell_ to know that John, his John, reliable John, hasn't _written_.

He grimaces at how greedy for social contact he sounds as he recalls the disdain he once had for it, how he thought it was illogical and sentimental and entirely _not him._

 _No letters yet. I have refrained from writing.-SH_

He promptly slides his mobile shut, looking to the fine paper he has laid out on his desk, a biro placed beside it. Sherlock is tempted to give in, to just write the damn letter already, but he realizes that he is being unreasonable, that John has probably only just settled in Afghanistan. He needs to give him time.

Another vibration rattles his hands.

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to remind you or anything. I was just curious.-GL

Will you write soon, though?-GL

Sherlock studies the text and ponders why exactly Lestrade is so invested in finding out about his and John's social pleasantries via letters.

 _I fail to understand why you are so interested in this subject.-SH_

What?! Did the Great Sherlock Holmes just admit to not knowing something?-GL

Anyways, I just...I don't know...I just want you guys to stay close, even when he's away.-GL

Surprisingly, the detective realizes he's flattered by the DI's consideration. He simply can't wrap his mind around Gavin's concern, so he responds the only way he knows how to, in this moment; with suspicion.

 _Or maybe your prolonged social luncheons with Mycroft have made you nearly as meddlesome.-SH_

Now don't hold those lunches against me. I just know how you and John are.-GL

 _And how is that?-SH_

Awful with feelings and afraid to admit things.-GL

Sherlock tries to settle the tremor in his fingers, holding in a breath that feels too big for his chest, like he'll implode if he lets it out. How does Lestrade see it? He hides it, he's hid it from John even, but the man who's name he can never remember _knows_?

 _Afraid to admit what?-SH_

Damnit, Sherlock, don't play dumb. For the sake of us both just say it, please.-GL

He lets out an almost feral growl, trying to derail this conversation before the DI can write anything else pertaining to his and John's complicated relationship.

 _I have nothing to say.-SH_

Bullocks!-GL

He wonders just how far Lestrade is willing to take this conversation. Maybe George wants him to actually admit it? Maybe he can get away with texting only a smidgen of what he actually feels for John.

 _I care for him deeply.-SH_

I think the word you're looking for is 'love.'-GL

Sherlock grimaces. Love is only a fraction of how strongly he feels for the doctor.

 _If I did, how do you think John would react? Certainly not kindly.-SH_

This sounds like more than just a hypothetical, so I'll in turn give you an ignorant response.-GL

With a sigh, he glares at his phone screen. Why must Geoff be so insistent about this? His life would be much less complicated if no one knew. Perhaps a vague text would suit this situation?

 _Alright, so perhaps I do. What of it?-SH_

Sherlock, there isn't anything wrong with it. I just want you to say three words.-GL

What's the point of admitting any of this if it doesn't increase the chances of he and John actually becoming ' _involved_ '?

 _But John isn't like that. Not with me.-SH_

Consulting Detectives must be really emotionally stunted not to notice how much they mean to people. You're everything to John.-GL

The boffin bristles at the insult, but almost immediately brushes it off once he reads the end of the text. What's that supposed to mean? Someone can care for another person without that meaning they love them romantically.

 _There's a difference between caring platonically and romantically.-SH_

And I think you and John have crossed the distance between the two.-GL

I just realize now how rom-com this whole thing is. Actually it's more like a tragedy.-GL

This whole thing is very _tedious_ , in Sherlock's opinion.

 _Could we terminate this conversation?-SH_

Only if you say the three magic words. Otherwise I'll be forced to spam your phone with photos you will find fairly unpleasant.-GL

Either his threat is unfounded, which is a very likely possibilty, or he actually has a collection of images that will invoke an unwanted negative response. The former seems likely, but going by the DI's persistence, the latter is definitely feasible.

 _That message isn't as threathening as you might think.-SH_

 _Downloading image..._

(Here lies an image of which its description is unfit for human eyes. You may imagine as you please.)

 _Everyone in this dreaded world may be idiots, but no one deserves to look at this.-SH_

So you'll say it?-GL

 _I can't say it over a text.-SH_

Quit stalling. I have more important things I could be doing.-GL

 _Then why aren't you doing them?-SH_

Sherlock!-GL

The detective inhales, exhales, shakes his head, then types. He sits with his phone in his hands and wonders how such an insignificant item has ultimately the most important phrase ingrained in it. He's cradling words in his hands that may change the very course of his existence.

He hits ' _send_.'

 _I love John. There. Is you mediocre brain satisfied with that response?-SH_

I'm so proud I got you to say it that I'm not even going to hold that insult against you.-GL

Sherlock frowns. That isn't what he expected as a response. He just confided in the DI. That text could make or break his relationship with John.

 _I assume you're pleased enough to stop sending these silly messages.-SH_

Eh, I'd say my overall rating of your service is only three and a quarter stars.-GL

The boffin doesn't let the upward curl of his lips affect his next message.

 _You have now exceeded you stupidity limit for the day. This is the point where I will stop responding. Sod off and have a nice day.-SH_

It's been knocked down to a two and a half.-GL

Sherlock allows himself to smile.

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 **A/N: I'm really pleased with all the feedback on the first chapter. Thanks to anyone who has followed, favorited, reviewed, or even just viewed this story. It means a lot to me. Any more feedback and the like is greatly appreciated.**


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